


Bro.

by lost_in_dark_places



Series: The Asset, his Mission [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Thinks He Has Everything Under Control, Bucky gets involved, Clint Being a Disaster, Multi, he doesn't, polyamory (discussed), tracksuit draculas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:47:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3762055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_in_dark_places/pseuds/lost_in_dark_places
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint invites Bucky over for pizza and an accidental gang war. or Something. He really didn't think this through. It's a problem he has. Bucky shows up with a bag of guns. Kate meets another of her heroes and is way more impressed with this one.</p><p>Bucky makes a plan. It almost works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bro.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ModernArt2012](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernArt2012/gifts).



> This fic came to be because me and ModernArt had a Moment over Boomerang arrows (which, ironically, never made it into this fic because my Muse is stubborn). This is the last time I call a project "The Disaster ______" because this damn thing did everything it could to earn the title, and fought me on everything from content to tone. This probably isn't the last Bucky and Clint Do Stupid Things fic though, so there's hope for the future.
> 
> I don't speak or write Russian, though various characters do. For the purposes of fiction Russian speech is denoted by _ _italicized text between underscores_ _.
> 
> Trigger Warning for Bucky's Poor Mental Health. He pushes himself a little too hard in this one, and it catches up.

It starts with a phone call.

Bucky eyes his new Stark Phone with deepest suspicion. The contact was listed as “Birdbrain”, which, since Tony loaded his contacts, means Clint.

Bucky has never gotten a call from Clint before. Clint just shows up. With Natalia. Never Clint alone.

This is the second time he was calling this morning, Bucky had just missed the first one and then the phone started ringing again.

This was gonna be bad.

* * *

“Oh, hey man, how are ya?’.” Clint says.

“Fine.” Bucky says.

“Oh. Oh, good. Stark hit you with that upgrade yet?”

“No, he’s running every possible simulation, gonna have to take it off, so we want things to run as smooth as possible. I should be okay so long as I don’t over stress my arm.”

“Hmmm. How much stress is too much?” Clint says, almost to himself.

“What do you need, Clint?” Bucky asks, suspicions confirmed.

“I was wondering if you wanted to come visit my apartment for once. You know, I always go over yours.”

Bucky says nothing.

“You still there, man?”

Bucky sincerely regrets answering the phone.

“There’s—There may be a situation.” Clint finally admits.

“Hm.” Bucky says, “Should I suit up?”

The silence is telling.

“Y—Well, no.” Clint says, “There are civvies involved.”

“Was that ‘Yes bring guns, discretely’ or ‘Why would you need guns?’” Bucky asks for clarification’s sake.

“The first one?”

“Give me the address, Clint.”

* * *

Bucky considers his available equipment carefully.

His usual Combat Armor is right out. Too bulky for concealed carry. He put on the new Ultralight Body armor Stark (made for him, but they don’t talk about that) gave him to test. He considers packing the Combat kit too, but really, Stark’s armor has tested so well he shouldn’t need it unless Clint was in way more trouble than he let on.

Given the Barton Disaster Factor, if things had escalated that far, more armor probably wouldn’t help anyway.

Which brings him to weapons. He wants all of them.

But no. _Be reasonable, Barnes._

He switches his SIG to a shoulder holster (he hadn’t owned a shoulder holster when Stark dragged his ass in here half-fried and down an arm, but shit keeps showing up, and Bucky is not going to send it back) he shoves an extra knife in his boot, and puts another on his belt. He pulls a tactical shotgun and some various rounds (from beanbag, to mildly explosive), and puts them in a duffel with his standard tac belt.

He thinks longingly of his sniper rifle, wrestled away from S.H.I.E.L.D. after they built it for him, but that was at Steve’s. He could stop by maybe, Clint’s place was also in Brooklyn, wouldn’t take too long. . . .

“Looks like someone is getting ready for a party,” Tony says out of a holographic screen, “How concerned should I be?”

Bucky really wants his M4, but he’s having a hard time justifying it even to himself. “Clint called.” He says.

“I am very concerned,” Tony says, “Should I suit up?”

“I think if Clint needed that much firepower he would have called you.” Bucky says. He leaves the M4, and loads up on more shotgun ammo instead. And grenades. Weren’t there shock grenades— “Weren’t there some shock grenades you gave me to test?” He asks aloud.

“Yes, there were.” Tony says, “What was that you said about firepower?”

“Please, I would need an entire team carrying guns for me to equal one of your suits.” Bucky says, and sighs. “I used to have that.”

“You know, it’s kinda disturbing when you go nostalgic about your murder-for-Hydra days.” Tony says.

“It’s not the Hydra part I’m reminiscing about.” Bucky says as he finds the case of untested ‘concept’ grenades and begins sorting them into the bag, “It’s the tactical flexibility. No one at S.H.I.E.L.D. trusts me enough to give me solo Ops, let alone a team to train. Sure I got you guys, but it’s an entirely different dynamic.”

“Yeah, I’ve never been much of a team player, that’s why the suit doesn’t need support staff.” Tony says.

“You mean, besides J.A.R.V.I.S.” Bucky says.

“Well, you know.” Tony flaps his hands vaguely.

“It’s so nice to be appreciated, sir.” J.A.R.V.I.S. says. Bucky smiles to himself as the Tony/J snark war recommences. He throws a box of non-lethal rifle-rounds into the bag, acknowledging the fact that it means that he will be stopping back at the apartment to get his sniper kit, because he is insane.

“Hey, I need to call Steve and let him know something broke.” Bucky says, cutting through the madness.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony says, “Just stay out of range of those shock-grenades, they might trigger your new failsafe and put your arm out.”

“Good to know.” Bucky says, still not entirely comfortable with the thought that his arm might just quit on him. ‘Better than the alternative’ is becoming his mantra. He waves Tony’s screen shut and asks J to dial Steve, while he tucks a few other little extras into his bag.

The phone rang over the speaker until it hit Steve’s obscurely hair-raising automated message, unchanged since he bought his first cell phone because he couldn’t be bothered. There’s no reason “The number you have dialed . . .” should be freaky, but if Steve didn’t put something else up, Bucky was gonna, dammit.

“Hey, Stevie, I know your probably in a meeting or whatever, I’m just calling to let you know Clint called me for backup. I’m not sure exactly what he’s into, but it shouldn’t be too bad, and I’m prepared for anything short of alien invasions, I think. I’m sure if it turns into an apocalypse they’ll call you in, whiny Senators or no. See ya in a couple days.” Bucky signed a cutoff for J.

Bucky pulled on one of Steve’s hoodies (he wasn’t stealing them. . . .on purpose), checked the mirror to make sure that his gun and knife were as invisible as possible, grabbed his bag and heads out.

* * *

J.A.R.V.I.S. lets Tony know as soon as Bucky leaves the building. There’s a moment of silence that would be prayer filled if either of them had a religion.

Then Tony sends an alert to Legal, P.R., and Natasha.

* * *

Bucky comes at Barton’s place obliquely, casing the neighborhood. There was one hell of a gang presence, bunch of assholes dressed in tracksuits, gettin’ into all kinds of trouble. Bucky made himself invisible (which is easier than it sounds, you just become something everyone expects to see, then fade into the background) and took some time to observe.

It seemed like pretty straightforward petty crime. Nothing too exciting.

Things started getting more tense as he neared Barton’s address though, tracksuits were more visibly armed, with chips on their shoulders. Bucky was getting a pretty firm feeling as to why he was here.

He calls Barton from a nearby rooftop.

“How likely am I to get mobbed if I walk up to your building, Clint?” he asks as soon as Clint answers.

“There’s, there’s a pretty good chance.” Clint admits, “Then again, you’re a pretty scary guy, so. . . .”

“Hm.” Bucky says, “What are the rules of engagement? I don’t ask idly.”

“Rules of—Dude, just don’t kill anyone.” Clint says, shocked, “Actually, try to keep people mostly intact, no. . .maiming, or. Shit, it’s been a while since I had to rehab a psycho assassin, and I honestly don’t know what you want from me.”

“Non-lethal force, minimum required.” Bucky says, “Any other directives beyond flailing confusion?”

“I can’t tell if you’re serious, and I’m freaking out.” Clint says, with just and edge of panic.

“I’ll try to communicate more clearly in the future,” Bucky says, “My Therapists recommend slow, deep breathes to see you through a freak-out.”

“Your—You—I—I’m hanging up now, don’t kill anyone.” Clint says, and does. Bucky takes a moment to laugh his ass off, silently, before climbing down off the building.

Bucky b-lines for Clint’s building, stabilizing his bag with his right hand so he could hide his left, inviting whatever. Whatever materializes in the form of three thugs on the sidewalk outside the front door.

“Whoa, Bro, whatchu doin’ here? You don’ live up here, Bro.” the lead man said.

“Na, man, Na, Imma just gonna hang out with a friend, man.” Bucky says, mirroring him with a little extra slump and distance.

“I don’ know, Bro, you wearin’ a hella lotta coat,” Tracksuit Two said, “Bro, I think he’s up to sumthin’, Bro.”

“Na, man, ain’t like that. I’m always cold, ya know?” Bucky says, only lying a little, “Got this shit, fucked me right up, now I’m always. . . .” he let the sentence trail off.

“Bro, he does look pretty fucked up.” Tracksuit Three says. Bucky doesn’t know if he should take that as a compliment to his acting ability, or a general insult.

“Gotta check’im over anyway, Bro, _ _Bossman said—_ _"

Bucky isn’t sure if it was the Russian or the way the guy reached for him, but something hit the switch, and he was laying the guy out with a hard left before he has a chance to think on it.

“_ _You shouldn’t harass people in the street_ ,_” The Asset says, “_ _Maybe you find someone who doesn’t like it, yeah?_ _”

Neither of the remaining Tracksuits answer. They’re staring at the Asset’s hand.

“_ _Oh, you like this?_ _” the Asset says, lifting his hand and flexing it for them, “_ _Would you like a better look?_ _”

One of them starts to nod, but the smarter one grabs him and shakes his head. “No, Bro, we good.”

“_ _That’s good_ ,_” The Asset says, “_ _I’m going inside now, you can pick up the trash when I’m gone._ _” The Asset gives Alpha-Tracksuit a kick for emphasis, and is relieved to hear him groan.

As the Asset enters Barton’s building he hears one of them say “Bro, what the fuck was that, Bro?”

“Trouble, Bro—“ but then the door swings shut, and cuts them off.

The Asset pauses. (disengage?)

Someone comes running down the stairs, the Asset has a knife flipped up and ready to throw well before Barton skids to a halt on the bottom landing, armed with his bow and quiver.

“Shit, Barnes, what happened?” he gasps leaning on the wall.

“The Asset met resistance on the way in.” The Asset reports, “It was insufficient.”

“Oh, you’re being that guy.” Barton says, “I thought I said no killing?”

“I’m always that guy, Asshole,” Bucky says putting away his knife, “And the bastard was still alive when I kicked him.”

“That’s comforting.” Barton says, “Why don’t you come up to my apartment were we can have this conversation like civilized people?”

Bucky is a little fuzzy on the concept of civilization these days, but he’s pretty sure that no one who runs around with a bow and arrows or a bag of guns really qualifies, “Sure, it’s fun to pretend.” he says.

Barton flips him the bird over his shoulder before waving him up the stairs, and Bucky starts climbing.

“Didn’t I see an elevator?” he asks.

“It’s broken.” Barton says, then mutters: “Shit, guess that’s my responsibility now, huh?” under his breath. They top the last flight and Barton pushes through a door and swears.

“Damnit, Kate, what are you doing in my apartment?” he says, absently petting the dog that seemingly teleported to his hand.

“Why wouldn’t I be in yo—Oh.” The girl stops whatever she was doing by Clint’s counter, and stares at Bucky as he pushes in, and drops the bag (gently) by the door, where it will be easier to grab later. The dog sniffs the bag and looks at it disapprovingly, then investigates Bucky. Bucky pats his head as he cases the room (smallish kitchen, expansive living room, stairs up to some loft space, coupla doors that were probably bathroom and storage).

“Oh, hey.” The girl says, “I’m Kate Bishop.” her eyes are a little wide.

“James Barnes, pleased ta meetcha,” Bucky says.

(Clint is frowning at Bucky’s bag, like he’s coming to unpleasant realizations about it’s contents.)

“You—your kidding right? James Ba—like Captain America’s best friend?” Miss—Ms.? isn't that the thing now?—Bishop says.

“Exactly like.” Bucky says.

Barton finally shuts the door, with maximum drama. “What’s in the bag, _James_?”

“Nothin’ you didn’t ask for, _Clinton_.” Bucky says. Clint hides his face in his hands.

“It’s too early in the day to be questioning my life choices,” he groans.

“Maybe if you questioned your life choices earlier, you wouldn’t be in this mess.” Ms. Bishop says. Not like she had any idea what the current mess was, but more like this was a reflexive response.

“She’s got a point,” Bucky says, “You called me.”

“Stop making sense.” Clint says, “Katie, you probably want to get out while the gettin’s good.”

“But. . . Captain America’s best friend just walked into your apartment.” Ms. Bishop says.

“Carrying an illegal arsenal.” Clint adds.

“A—Oh shit.” Ms. Bishop says.

They both stare at Bucky. He seriously hadn’t considered that angle, legality wasn’t traditionally a concern of his.

“Well.” Bucky says, “I may have overpacked. But we can’t all go running around with bows and arrows, can we?”

“Why not?” Clint and Ms. Bishop say.

Bucky double takes.

“What’s wrong with arrows?” the girl says, eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Well, nothin’ I suppose,” Bucky says, “But they aren’t optimized for modern warfare. Also, who doesn’t love grenades?”

“Two words: Explosive Arrows.” Clint says.

The Asset takes a moment to run the math and. . . .”See, no, you won’t get as much Bang for your effort because the explosive would have to be small enough not to wreck the balance of the Arrow into unsuitability.”’

“He’s not wrong,” Ms. Bishop says with a shrug, and Clint looks wounded, “But bows are quiet and stealthy.”

“A properly equipped rifle with enough distance and sub-sonic rounds is at least as quiet,” Bucky says, “And if noise is a real issue you could always go close with a good knife.”

“Wow, Clint, Bucky Barnes is kinda scary in real life.” Ms. Bishop whispers.

Clint gives Bucky a questioning look. Bucky shrugs. Then he moves to the opposite side of the counter-island-thing from the door so Ms. Bishop would have a clear run if she needs it.

“Remember that Psycho that almost killed the Captain that time in D.C.?” Clint says.

“The guy with the metal—“

Bucky waves, left-handed. “It was an interesting time in my life.” he says solemnly.

“He—but—I need to sit.” Ms. Bishop says, and does, “and really, Fight Club?”

“When the Black Widow tells you to watch a movie, you watch it.” Bucky says.

“That makes sense,” Bishop says, still dazed, “But—but what happened?”

“A lotta shit, Miss, and I don’t really wanna talk about it.” Bucky says, “Let’s say I wasn’t in my right mind, but Steve brought me back in the end.”

“Wow. That’s. . . wow.” she says, “So you’re an Avenger now?”

“I don’t know that it’s official, but generally if Steve’s in a mess, I’m pullin’ him out.” Bucky says.

“Okay, no,” Clint says, “He’s a lying sack of shit, he’s done more towards team building than anyone who’s ‘official’.”

Bucky shrugs uncomfortably at that. It was one of those things that needed doing, that’s all.

“So you know how sometimes you meet your hero and they’re a huge disappointment and sometimes it’s even better that you ever thought?” Ms. Bishop says, “I’ve had both of those experiences now.”

“Hey!” Clint said, apparently very sure were he stood on that scale.

“C’mon, Clint you’re a disaster, you can’t even make your own cereal some days.” Ms. Bishop says, “And then we have Bucky who’s all sweet, and kinda scary, but like the backbone of the Avengers, and stuff. Sure he looks kinda homeless—”

“It’s camouflage.” Bucky says, “Looking slightly disreputable is a good way to be ignored in an urban setting.”

“See, even his apparent flaws are badass.” Ms. Bishop says.

“Bucky, stop stealing my protege.” Clint whines.

“If I can steal her by showing up, you never really had her.” Bucky says, and something ugly flashes across Clint’s face before he covers.

“So why did you call him in anyway?” Ms. Bishop says, having missed it.

“Tracksuit Draculas.” Clint says.

“Oh, those guys.” Ms. Bishop says, “Clint beat them up and stole their dog, now they hate him.”

“They were evicting the people in the building over bullshit, and when I tried to fix it they beat me up and I stole their dog, ‘cause they threw him into traffic.” Clint says, “Then when they came to get him back I beat them up and bought the building off of them.”

“In some universe this makes sense.” Bucky says, “Unfortunately I don’t live there.”

“Just roll with it,” Ms. Bishop says, “It’s Clint.”

“So now they hate me.” Clint says, “They’ve been makin’ all kinds of issues around the neighborhood, and now they’re harassing people coming to and from the building—”

“I know,” Buck says.

“—And I’m sick of it. There are little kids in this building, they don’t need that shit.” Clint says crossing his arms and looking defiant.

“Okay.” Bucky says. Clint blinks.

“Okay?” Clint and Ms. Bishop say.

“You don’t need to give me a pitch, I’m here, I have guns.” Bucky says, “What do you want me to do with them?”

Clint and Bishop exchange a look.

“I will use this power only for good.” Clint says.

“Damn right you will, or this power will punch you repeatedly in the face until you snap out of it.” Bucky says.

“I like him.” Bishop says to Clint.

“Strangely,” Bucky says, “I have yet to hear anything like a plan.”

“I expected to have to work up to it more.” Clint says.

* * *

“So you’re plan is to wait for them to show up, and then fight them,” Bucky says, petting Lucky, who keeps shoving his head into his lap and giving him the saddest one-eyed looks.

“It’s a good plan.” Clint says.

“No, a good plan involves gathering intel, assessing the threat level, and you know, making a plan.” Bucky says.

“But that sounds like work, and Clint has allergies.” Kate says.

“Ha. Ha.” Clint says, “But no, really, it’s a tracksuited gang. How much more intel do we need? We just want to run them off. One of us is a super soldier here.”

“If it’s so simple, why do you need me at all?” Bucky says.

“Well, there’s only one of me, I tend to get mobbed.” Clint says.

“I’ll just be invisible, here.” Kate says giving Clint a dirty look.

“I’d say adding one person to the mix won’t help that, but honestly, if your only going to pick one—“ Bucky says.

“It’s Nat, Steve, or you,” Clint says, “Nat would never let me live it down. Steve would drag either you or Wilson or both along anyway.”

“Whereas I show up with an illegal arsenal and no questions.” Bucky says.

“Yeah, which is why you are now my go-to for all stupid shenanigans ever.” Clint says.

“This is one of those moments you should stop and think, Clint.” Kate says, “Also, I could help with the tracksuits, damnit.”

“Never said you couldn’t, Katie-girl.” Clint says, “It’s just I still get mobbed when you’re around.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.” Bucky says, “Like maybe you forgot that snipers belong where they can’t get mobbed.”

Clint gives him a dirty look,“You’re one to talk, like I haven’t seen you jump out of position at the speed of light.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “And I paid for didn’t I?” (Steve is down and he can’t fucking move, and they keep trying to get the Asset to heel, but oh god stevie what the fuck. . . .) He blinks away the memory, even though the fear in that baby agent’s eyes wakes him up some nights, the way they screamed monster. “And I’m not just a sniper anymore, but we both know your hand to hand skills are crap.”

“I’m sorry I don’t stand up to your extra-super-secret Soviet-or-whatever—“

Something hits the window casing. “BROOOOoooooooo,” Someone yells outside.

“Ha. My plan wins.” Clint says, grinning like an idiot as he pulls his bow off the wall.

“Same rules?” Bucky asks as he strips off his (steve’s) hoody. He starts zipping off the left sleeve of his armor (proof that the armor was not “—just laying around, here, why don’t you test it for me?”, not that Bucky has pointed that out, or Tony would acknowledge it if he did.)

“Hm?” Clint says, messing with his quiver, “Oh, yeah, no killing, as little maiming as possible. Everyone should be able to walk, if not run, away.” Kate has also produced a bow and quiver, or rather they’d been around but Bucky thought they also belonged to Clint.

“Does it count if I make sure there’s enough in walking-shape to carry away the ones who can’t?” Bucky asks as he goes over to his bag and fishes out his tac belt, and starts suiting up.

“Wait, is he serious?” Kate asks.

“I can’t tell.” Clint says, voice going tight.

“I’m mostly joking, except for the part where my training has been geared towards swift and permanent take-downs, and it takes conscious effort to beat those reflexes.” Bucky says loading his shotgun with bean bag rounds. Upon consideration, he switches clips in his SIG to ICER rounds, but he leaves his holdouts alone.

“So it’s a ‘Yes, but no’ situation.” Kate says. More crap goes bouncing off the building.

“No, but yes.” Bucky says, adding a ASP to his belt and a few Widow’s Bites (he’s almost certain Natalia knew he lifted them and just didn’t care) to his pockets. “Hey, Barton, I got some non-lethal rifle rounds, if you’re into that kinda thing.”

“Cool,” he says, “. . . .But arrows.”

“Bishop will already be bringing the arrows,” Bucky says, “If you have a rifle and I’m on the ground we will appear to be a larger, more varied, and more intimidating force.”

Clint looks conflicted for a moment, “Oh, fine.” he says and dashes up the stairs.

“So this is what you do?” Kate says.

“Yeah, just another day at the office.” Bucky says, fishing out a few of the Avenger-style comms he’d acquired, and tossing her one. Bucky throws another at Barton when he comes thundering out of the loft with a rifle slung opposite his quiver.

“Shit, are these Tony’s? He can’t know you have these, he’s fucking paranoid about this shit.” Barton says.

“I didn’t ask before I took them, but, yeah, he knows.” Bucky says, moving out of the way so Clint could load up, “If you can’t trust an ex-ghost operative to keep your secrets. . . .” Something cracks against a window.

“They break my windows, I’m gonna break their faces,” Clint mutters, and Kate snorts, “Jesus, Barnes what army did you think you were supplying?”

“Myself.” Bucky says, “We should maybe get this show one the road.”

“How is it you’re calling the shots?” Clint says, “I called you, remember?”

“Right you are, Boss.” Bucky deadpans, “Where do you want me?”

“On the ground, not killing people.” Clint says, waving everyone out.

“First time I got those orders.” Bucky says, letting the snipers go first so they’ll get an extra couple of seconds to get into position. Bucky starts sliding closer to the Asset as he moves down the stairs, letting old rhythms take over.

(“He’s kind of a snarky asshole, isn’t he.” Kate says.)

(“He can hear you, Katie, that’s what the comms are for.” Clints says.)

(Kate clears her throat, “You’re kind of a snarky asshole, aren’t you.”)

“Takes one to know one, Bishop.” Bucky murmurs, as he rounds the last landing.

(“Oooh, Burn.” Clint says.)

He pushes through the door with a little more fanfare than necessary, but suddenly he has the attention of (eight) armed tracksuits (bludgeons/baseball bats only, no sign of concealed firearms).

All eight tracksuits take a moment to consider their life choices.

“Do we have a problem, gentlemen?” Bucky asks.

“Bro. We ain’t got no problem with you, Bro.” One of them says.

“Yeah, bro, it’s that other Bro.” Another says.

“Well, then, we do have a problem.” Bucky says, “Because I don’t approve of pissy gangbangers fucking with my associates.”

“Bro. Do you even know what he did? Bro earned this.”

“I do not know, or care.” Bucky says, “He’s mine. Fuck off.”

(“Oh, really, I’m yours now?” Barton says.)

(“You don’t want him, trust me.” Kate says.)

“We can do this easy or hard.” Bucky says, “Walk away, right now, and you won’t regret it. Stay. . . .”

“And what, Bro?” one of the tracksuits says. Bucky chambers a round and shoots him: the impact knocks him on his ass, and probably cracks some ribs.

“Well, then, things are going to get unpleasant.” Bucky says.

(“He’s my new favorite.” Kate says.)

(“But. . .he doesn’t even like arrows.” Clint says.)

“Bro. Who the fuck do you think you are, Bro?” One of the other tracksuits screams, and the Asset’s reflexes have the shotgun trained on him, ready to fire.

“_I? I am a ghost._” the Asset says, “_In Russia they called me the Winter Soldier, and my history is written in the blood of men greater than you._”

(“What the—?” Bishop says.)

(“Yeah, he does that.” Barton answers.)

“_You will remove yourselves from my area of operation._” the Asset continues, ignoring the chatter.

“Fuck you, bro.” the wounded target gasps.

The Asset lowers the shotgun and reaches for the Widow’s Bites, he activates one and throws it at the target. The target screams and convulses. (it’ll be hell on those ribs, and he’ll probably need to be carried out now.)

A tracksuit comes at him bat raised, the Asset blocks on instinct and nearly kills him, but (non-lethal force only) remodulates his attack. The target gasps, momentarily deprived of breath and the Asset throws him into his companions. (not that hard, conditions met)

The targets are scattered by a barrage of arrows and rifle rounds.

(“Asset, report.” Barton says, once the bastards were done scurrying off.)

“Fuck you, Barton.” Bucky says.

(“Just checking,” Barton says, “You have been stepping in and out of murder mode a lot easier lately.”)

“It’s not murder mode.” Bucky says, turning back toward the apartment building.

(“Oh, right, you also cook under the influence.” Barton says.)

(“Hold it,” Kate says, “He COOKS?”)

“The Asset is skilled at a number of complex tasks.” Bucky says, pushing back inside. There’s a fine tremor in his right, growing sense of wrongness that he can’t tamp down, “I’m going off comms, I need a minute.”

He expects it to be a Thing. Flashback, something, but nothing happens. He finds himself fishing out his phone—Tony gave it to him, insisting it was a necessity of modern life, and Bucky always kept it with him even though he hadn’t actually used it. Steve was listed as Captain Spangles because, again, Tony.

The phone seems to ring forever.

“Bucky, what the fuck?” Steve says, and Bucky immediately relaxes.

“Woulda been embarrassing for you if I was someone else.” Bucky says.

“You—what the fuck is going on?” Steve says.

“Nothing, Stevie.” Bucky says, “Well, a bit of a SNAFU involving gang activity in Clint’s neighborhood, but we have it under control.”

“You sure?” Steve asks.

“Yeah, everything is fine here.” Bucky says, “How are things down there?”

“Not bad, I should be wrapping up soon.” Steve says.

“No one tried to kill you yet? You eating?”

“Yes, I’m eating.” Bucky can almost hear Steve rolling his eyes, “And no one is trying to kill me.”

“Don’t be so sure, most assassins don’t jump on the roof of your car in broad daylight.” Bucky says.

“Yeah, you got a real signature style,” Steve says, “At least I’m not in the middle of a gang war.”

“Really? I thought you were speaking to the Senate.”

“Oh, political humor, hilarious.” Steve says. Barton is creeping down the stairs. He probably thinks he’s being very stealthy.

“Hey,” Bucky croons, “Don’t be jealous about me saving Clint’s ass, okay? You know it ain’t the same when it isn’t you.” Barton fumbles a step.

“What, what is that voice?” Steve says, “Why are you sweet talking me?”

“You know how it is.” Bucky says, brushing off some of the old scripts, “I gotta keep myself busy somehow, right? But it don’t mean nothin’.” There’s some scrabbling on the steps, a hasty and badly covered attempt to back off.

“What ungodly thing—“ Steve says, decoding from years of Bucky bullshitting and laughing.

“And you know I’m thinkin’ about you the whole time—” Bucky says, moving closer to the stairs and keeping his voice sweet, “I really miss you, Stevie.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re up to,” Steve says in stitches, “But you’re an evil bastard, and I’m hanging up now.”

“Love you too, Punk.” Bucky says, just before he does. Barton trips again, and this time goes half-sliding, half-tumbling down the stairs.

“Aw, stairs, no.” he says.

“What the Fuck?” Bucky says, keeping his face stern by sheer force of will.

“This looks bad—“ Clint says.

“I’d say.” Bucky says.

“I was just coming to check on you, you know?” Clint says, “I really did not mean to eaves-drop on your phone-make-out session.”

Bucky turns his back, because he can’t keep his face straight anymore, and if he doesn’t start laughing he might explode, but he keeps it to muffled gasps and shaking shoulders.

 “Oh, oh shit, are you—?” Clint says panicky, “Dude, I don’t care if your gay for Steve okay, it’s not a thing anymore.”

Bucky completely loses it. He should do better, he has decades of stone faced professionalism behind him, but fuck it. He gets to have fun now.

“You—You’re laughing.” Clint says, “You’re laughing because you heard me on the stairs and this was all some kind of set up.”

Bucky is laughing to hard to answer, so he just waves wildly.

“You weren’t even talking to Steve were you!” Clint accuses.

“I was.” Bucky gasps, “He thought it was—hilarious, and he didn’t even know who I was pranking.” Bucky succumbs to another bout of laughter, “Can’t wait to tell him you fell down the stairs.”

“You’re a complete asshole.” Clint says.

“Don’t think I’ve laughed this hard since that time Dernier gave Dum Dum an exploding cigar.” Bucky wheezed, as he wiped the tears from his face, “You’re okay though, right?”

“I’m a carny, I know how to fall.” Clint says, indignant.

“Just makin’ sure, I’m supposed to be saving your ass, not breaking it. Steve would be so disappointed.” Bucky says.

* * *

Bucky, Clint, and Kate spend the next few hours sharing intel and planning. Clint provides profoundly awful coffee, which somehow became addictive after the first cup.

Bucky kept sliding off into a fugue composed of mathematical/psychological models of the Targets' likely reactions, hard defensive positions, best approaches. . . . . He got sick of trying to hold it all in his head, and pulled out one of Tony’s tablets with volumetric display.

“This is some real Rainman level shit.” Clint says, watching him manipulate the map.

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to be.” Kate says, tilting her head.

“I’ve honestly only seen shit like this coming out of computers. You know, the ones that only crunch numbers, but at ridiculous speeds.” Clint says.

“I’m pretty sure Steve does the same thing, he just wasn’t trained like I was.” Bucky says, silently thanking any saints that might still be listening, “So he probably wouldn’t be able to put it out this coherently. Mostly it flashes through his head and then he starts barking orders or doing something stupid and suicidal.”

“That explains a lot.” Clint says.

“This is coherent?” Kate asks.

“Yes.” Bucky says, “Known routes and locations are laid out in black. Red gradient indicates how hard a given target is, the darker the blue the more defenses they are likely to have. Lines in gray indicates likely paths of retreat and reinforcement. . . .”

“That’s dynamic though.” Clint says.

“That’s why there’s so many of them.” Bucky pouts. He adds in a few more possibilities, clicks his tongue. Fractal probabilities chase each other through his mind. He begins picking attack points, three at a time, to watch how the models collapse under them. He stops to add a few lines, begins again. He relentlessly drives his model tracksuits into the ground.

“Well, that’s that with that.” Kate says.

“Not really,” Bucky says, “They won’t just retreat like that—at least not unless we had enough resources to blitz them off the map before they could retaliate, which we don’t. I was just proving my model.”

“Okay.” Kate says.

“See, we’re a big freaking target over here,” Bucky highlights the building in purple, “We can blitz them once with all of us, and if we do it right we can do an awesome amount of damage, but after that we need to leave a look out, and keep our operations with in a few minutes of base.” he spreads uses a purple gradient to show the maximum range for each of them, which was unfortunately limiting, even in his case.

“Once they recognize our limits, and perhaps before then if they are especially foolhardy they’ll begin to counter-attack. . . .” He began to program the various responses—from canny, wherein the tracksuits begin predicting targets and reinforcing them/attempting to intercept the attacks, to blunt, wherein the tracksuits pull a massed attack on the building.

He begins to put the new model through its paces, perpetually a step or two behind the one in his head.

“I really didn’t expect this from you.” Clint says.

“That’s because you all think of me as some kind of murder doll they’d wind up and let loose,” Bucky says, “Like I was given specific instructions I couldn’t deviate from or something. That’s fucking ridiculous, what use would I be like that? All they did was keep me wiped so I wouldn’t interfere with their goals, and kept my training current. They gave me Objectives, as much raw intel as possible, and the lists of available resources. I planned every Op I executed.”

Colors clashed and swirled violently in the air. Bucky selected his opening gambit and started building phase two contingencies. The room began to bleed an awful silence.

“It’s easy to pretend. I go into ‘Asset Mode’ and I’m just a suggestible meat puppet or something. I have enough programmed quirks that it reads that way, or I used to have, before we started overwriting most of them.” Bucky says, “But that’s never what it was. The knee-jerk shit was just an extra layer of control, backup systems. I was good at what I do before Hydra ever got hands on me, they made me better. The only part I can object to is. . . They stripped out all my reasons and spilled in their own.” What were they thinking when they sent him against Stevie, who was always his first and last reason? It didn’t really matter now did it?

Phase two kept hitting a wall in his head, it slowly dawned on him why. He reworked the phase one assignments.

“Okay, this is what we’re gonna do.” he said, resetting the model.

He laid out three targets each, Kate’s were all soft and close to base. She had a ‘bonus’ forth target too, that she was only supposed to go for if she finished the first three fast enough. Bucky knew the look she was giving him, he saw it enough times on Steve’s face, and Peggy’s too. She thought he was jerking her around because she was a girl, or younger, or both.

That wasn’t it. Bucky was giving her a cake walk with challenge round because he honestly didn’t know what she was capable of yet, and he needed to establish a baseline. Bucky is pretty sure Clint knows what’s going on, but he is detecting a little disapproval anyway. Well, you can’t please everyone.

“This attack has to be as devastating as possible.” Bucky tells them, “We need to make an impression, psychologically and materially.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” Clint asks.

“Meaning that anything we can do to deny the Tracksuits personnel, armament, or other resources will be in our favor,” Bucky says, “I’m going after a couple hard targets that look like distribution or production centers for drug trade, I’m going to disable the staff then alert the police, which should result in considerable loss of revenue and personnel. I highly recommend you two disable your targets in ways that will put them out of commission for a few days, or longer. If you have time, frisk them. Destroy weapons and any product they have on them, if they’ve been taking collections take the money—“

“This is really going to piss these people off.” Kate says.

“Yes,” Bucky says, “But they are already pissed, hopefully we can make them scared as well. Give them reasons to stop attacking Clint and his tenants— but at this point we need to realize that they probably won’t, because this is a matter of reputation. . . . Criminal organizations live and die on their reputations, and Clint has already wounded theirs. Every day he defies them is another insult, and eventually they are going to have to make an example of him.”

“That sounds ominous and horrible.” Clint says.

“This is why you shouldn’t piss off gangs.” Bucky says, “That shit tends to escalate.”

“Yeah, next thing you know there’s an assassin involved and everyone is gonna die.” Kate says.

“Hey, no one’s gonna die, we established that.” Bucky says, as the assassin involved.  
“No one is gonna die.” Clint repeats, as the other assassin involved, but he sounds a lot less sure about it.

“Right, we’re just going to antagonize the already annoyed gang, and everything will be fine.” Kate says.

“Well. . . .” Bucky says, running the numbers again, “Things may get. . .sticky. At some point. But I’m confident in my—our—ability to handle it.”

“Ominous.” Clint says.

Bucky sighs, “Anyone with a better plan can speak up anytime.”

Nobody speaks up.

“In that case, we should eat something and get some rest so we are actually prepared for the window tomorrow.” Bucky says.

“Yeah, about that. . .” Clint says rubbing the back of his neck. Kate rolls her eyes.

“Clint doesn’t actually have food, he lives off of take out and roof parties.” She says.

“I have. . . stuff.” Clint says, “Some stuff. I just don’t cook.”

Bucky sighs.

* * *

“How did he even do that?” Kate says, as the Asset puts the finishing touches on some pasta dish that smells way too good to exist in Clint’s kitchen, “Half an hour ago I’d have sworn under oath that there was no actual food in your apartment.”

“I don’t know.” Clint says, “I think he treats it like some kind of tactical exercise.”

“Clint. Clint, we need to get him on Food Network.” Kate says, eyes going wide, “Imagine him on Chopped. Clint. Extreme Cakes. He would be the next Food Network Star, Clint.”

“Iron Chef.” Clint says in awed tones.

“Yes!” Kate squeals.

“No.” Bucky says, but he’s hiding a smile.

* * *

The next day is less. . .light. More bloody.

(Part of him thinks he shouldn’t enjoy it so much)

(Part of him thinks enjoying this is even more obscene after enjoying a nice dinner with friends, like one corrupts the other)

(But if feels so good to be running an Op again, even a pissant Op against neighborhood gangsters)

He rolls a shock grenade into a room full off people who are packaging suspicious substances, and ducks around a corner. He can feel this toothless edge of the blast, a certain bite in the air, smell of ozone. That’s all. . . .not good.

He ducks back around the corner and the targets are almost all incapacitated, which is better. He picks the remainder off with ICERs. A guard comes out of an office, and charges. Bucky could have shot him, but his non-lethal rounds are at a premium, and, hey, he’s headed right over.

Then he’s on the ground and Bucky is shaking out his left arm. Feels a little laggy. Might be his imagination. Damn Stark and his delays anyway. (He doesn’t mean that, it’s not Stark’s fault his arm is 87% tech from the Great Beyond or whatever, making it hard to adapt a new power source to it) He shakes it off and clears the building.

He finds a phone in the office space, calls 911 and leaves it off the hook.

“That’s one.” he says into his comms, as he leaves.

Clint and Kate report in soon after.

* * *

The second target goes much like the first, with less glitching arm, thankfully.

Kate is on to her third before he finishes, Clint reports his second just after Bucky’s.

* * *

His last target is the kind of thing that he’d give Steve an angry lecture about. Real Bad Guy Bar, complete with shady dealings in a backroom.

He could bypass it. Probably would be a smart thing to do. Then again, his analysis rates it as a pretty high value target.

And it’s been a while since he wrecked a bar.

He pushes in and every eye fixes on him. He’s wearing dark clothes, but a discerning eye can still pick out bloodstains, especially when they’re not quite dry. He goes straight for the bar.

“Whatchu want?” the bartender asks.

“Vodka.” Bucky answers, as if he doesn’t know about the gun behind the bar, or the thugs closing behind him.

* * *

“Seriously, what the fuck is going on?” Detective Pratt says.

The place looked like a war zone: every piece of furniture in pieces (except for one chair, tilted wildly against the wall, but apparently intact) and there was enough spilled booze that the place would probably go up at the first spark.

“Fuck if I know.” Detective Raine answers, spinning in the middle of the bar. EMTs already dragged out all the scum, and they were scum, most of them had something actionable on them (in theory, if they weren’t found unconscious and ready to scream “I was framed!” the second they woke up), and when the prints come back on the unregistered weapons they’d probably have more. Not that it mattered much.

“It’s probably some kind of vigilante. Bastards are popping up like weeds all of a sudden.” Pratt says, “Hey, we get anyone to translate that yet?” She points to the napkin on the bar, Cyrillic scrawled across it, only slightly blurred by the alcohol spillage.

“‘Winter is Coming.’” Raine says.

“Really? Should we call Stark and ask what his House is up to?”

“You are such a fucking nerd, Pratt.”

“In other news,” says a tech coming in from the back room, “I think we hit the mother-load back there. Ledgers. Someone tried to burn them, but someone else didn’t let them.”

“Well, hell.” Raine says.

* * *

Bucky lets himself into Clint’s apartment. Kate is already there worshiping at the altar of shitty coffee. She gives Bucky a smug look.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky says, inured to such looks long ago. He fishes a change of clothes out of his bag, sparing a pat for the dog.

Clint comes in. He’s limping a little and smells like he crawled out of a dumpster. Lucky approves.

“Aw, hell,” Bucky says. Clint glares murder at him and slinks towards the bathroom. The door slams and the shower turns on. Bucky sighs.

“My apartment is across the hall,” Kate says, “If you don’t want to wait.”

“That would be swell, if your sure you won’t mind?” He says, giving her a smile.

Kate blinks, then seems to realize he’s not speaking ironically. “Right, um, come on.”

* * *

Clint keeps glaring. They’ve eaten through two and a half pizzas and Clint is still glaring. Kate looks like she might start giggling any moment.

Bucky is pretending to be completely focused on mission planning, but really he’s in the same boat as Kate.

* * *

“All I’m saying is, I wound up in a dumpster.” Clint says, taking a shot.

“And all I’m saying is, I don’t understand how you’re making this my fault.” Bucky says, “Did I throw you in the dumpster? No.” Bucky ducks out of the way of a flailing elbow, and pulls the target into a choke.

“This is your plan. Everything is your fault.” Clint says, and arrow slams into the wall next to Bucky’s head and starts spitting smoke.

“You know, maybe throwing you in a dumpster isn’t the worst idea.” Bucky says, shaking his head to clear the smoke, dragging the not-yet-unconscious target away from the source, “Besides, you invited me. I could be hanging out with Tony and J right now, playing with tech.”

“I have tech! I have really cool arrows!” Clint says. To illustrate this Clint shoots an arrow at the next target that explodes into a horrible sticky mess. The guy is bowled over by his own momentum and stuck to the ground like a fly on paper.

“Yeah, they’re alright.” Bucky says, and drops his target, before applying an ICER to the back of Clint’s guy’s head. Bucky checks to make sure the guy has an airway free of goo. Looks good.

“Alright, I’m going in.” Bucky reports.

“I’ll go in through the roof, meet you in the middle.” Clint says.

* * *

“Outside is clear.” Kate says, nice and to the point.

“Very nice,” Bucky says, “If I was more attached to my secret agency, I’d try to recruit you.”

“I think I’d tell you to go to hell.” Kate says.

“Smart Girl.” Bucky says to himself.

* * *

The point was to keep pushing as much as they could, keep the tracksuit’s on the defensive, and God willing damage them enough that they’d cut their losses. Bucky didn’t have much hope for the last part, but his plan was pretty tight. . . .

Except the police raid taking place at his next target was not part of the plan.

“Looks like our work here is done.” Clint says.

“Hm.” Bucky says, not sure how to fit this into his models. On one hand, fantastic: the cops might actually take these fuckers out. On the other hand, how will this effect the psychological climate? Will this make the tracksuits more desperate? angrier? Will the sturm and drang of police presence overtake the embarrassment of getting their asses kicked by that fucking archer and his psycho friend(s)?

“Let’s move to the next target.” Bucky says at last, his mind still swirling furiously around this new development.

“You copy that Katie? Game called on account of cops, moving on next target.” Clint says.

“Yeah, gotcha.” Kate says on comms.

Things get back on track: arrows fired, heads cracked (but not too cracked), tracksuit operations seriously disturbed.

* * *

“I’m going on recon,” Bucky announces after he eats, “I suggest you keep a guard, but otherwise rest as much as possible. If an attack is going to come it’s going to be soon, while Tracksuit Command still has something to throw at us.”

“Won’t be much at this rate.” Clint says.

“But whoever is left is going to be really pissed.” Kate says.

* * *

Bucky was happy to note that the immediate neighborhood was free of tracksuited assholes. He settled in for a long walk, sliding closer to the Asset, allowing him to soak in the atmosphere and analyze the evolving situation without participating in it.

“So. . . “ Barton says over comms.

Bucky had a strange longing for that time when anyone he worked with was too afraid to start a conversation, or was positive he was incapable of carrying one. He could just ignore Clint, that was allowed too. He hasn’t been the Asset (outside of cooking, or field operations where the boost in focus was useful) for a while and. . . .

He hasn’t slid into the Asset without cause, and he’s been stepping out as soon as the situation was handled.

(He hasn’t hidden in the Asset. . . .and he hadn’t even noticed the lack)

“Yeah?” he says, tentatively, around this realization.

“Just wondering how you’re doing. . . generally.” Clint says.

Bucky laughs.

“I’m not sure how to take that.” Clint says.

“Well, I’m recovering from having my brain repeatedly fried, coping with extensive brainwashing and depersonalization. . . .There’s various bouts of guilt about how I nearly killed my best friend, and did at least one horrible thing to everyone else in my current social circle. . . .”

“Whoa, not me!” Clint says.

“I shot Natalia,” Bucky says, “Twice. Don’t tell me that it wouldn’t have wrecked you if. . . .”

Clint silence is telling.

“So yeah, that.” Bucky says, “On the other hand, I actually like most of the things I’ve been doing. I feel. . . I don’t know. I’m glad to be here, right now.”

“Well that’s. . .good. Good.” Clint says, “I was thinking about what you said before, the. . .the murder doll thing. I—Look, I didn’t mean it like that when I asked you to in on this. I mean, I didn’t expect guns and actual tactics. I really thought we’d drink beer and eat pizza and then fight tracksuits when they showed up. . . .”

“So you make friends by pulling them into your accidental gang wars?” Bucky says.

“Well. . . .” Clint says.

“Don’t torture yourself, I ain’t doin’ anything I didn’t choose here.” Bucky says, “Actually, it’s been. . . good. Putting my skills to use, in a way. . . .you know, I know this is a good thing this time, and it doesn’t have to end with. . . .feels good trying to help people, instead of. . . .fucking things up.”

“Oh.” Clint says. He falls quiet for a while. Bucky is nearing the target locations, so he’s glad of the reprieve.

The location looks like another victim of the raid, crime scene tape stretched across the doors and all. Bucky doesn’t linger.

“So. . .you and Nat.” Clint says.

“What about. . .us.” Bucky says. Tony said. . . well. Tony.

Clint was silent again.

(“You should meet Clint,” Natalia said, “He’s the one who brought me in.”)

(If I can steal her by showing up. . .)

“You and Natalia. . . .” Bucky says, light dawning.

“No.” Clint says, “Yes? I mean there’s. . . a thing? sometimes. She’s hard to. . . you know. She doesn’t do. . .things.” he sighs, “I thought she didn’t.”

There were things Bucky could say here, but Clint probably knows most of them. Besides. . . .  
“I don’t know.” Bucky says, “Last time I knew her. . .she was a kid. But I know some things about the Program. . . .”

“The Program.” Clint says, “She doesn’t talk about it.”

“It’s—you don’t. It’s not—“ Bucky pauses, “You can see what they made of her. She doesn’t trust anything. People she trusts you can count on one hand. It’s. . . .they start so young with them. . . .”

“You were there,” Clint says.

“Not—not at the beginning. It’s they worked them over for a while before they brought me in. Kept working them after. . . .” Bucky says, “Part of it. . .they temper them against attachment, because. . . The work they’re meant for.”

“So you’re saying it’s not me, it’s her.” Clint says.

“I’m saying. . . .” Bucky suppresses a laugh, because he has no right to have this conversation at all, “Clint. She trusts you. She likes you. I’ve seen that much, but. . . .She’s used to having everything taken away. She’s been told affection is a flaw. She. . . .she had some very graphic demonstrations that loving something will harm it, not her, because she’s too valuable to waste.”

( __if we told him to kill you_ _)

Bucky shakes it away. “So she’ll hide whatever it is she feels.” Bucky says.

“Oh.” Clint says, then “Why is she so bad at hiding her thing for you?”

Bucky reaches the next location and uses it as an excuse not to answer. Place wasn’t raided, but it’s abandoned, anything of worth was either taken or destroyed from the look of things. Bucky climbs up on a nearby roof for cover and perspective, running numbers, running. . . .

“Maybe she trusts you enough to let you see.” He says, finally.

Bucky wonders what he’d find if he went to the gambling den, the one Clint told him about, where Ivan keeps his base. Or the strip club he had tagged as another operational hub.

“That’s something I guess.” Clint sighs.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with. . .with me and Natalia, I don’t know if— “ Bucky stops, “But whatever that is, or could be, It doesn’t— I don’t see how it effects you two. Unless one of you wants it to.”

Problem is, the cops didn’t know what his plan was. They hit where they could, wherever they had evidence of illegal activity. They didn’t have his predictions of their lines of retreat, their vital operations, the soft spots exposed by their panic. He was weaving this delicate web of total destruction, and they drove a tank through it.

Bucky was used to working for a shadow organization with deep penetration into government and law enforcement, giving him the ability to dictate these things (at a remove) from every angle. Now he was (mostly) alone, and Murphy was back at the table. Fuck Hydra and their contagious fucking complexity addiction.

“Did—did you just propose a threesome?” Barton says.

“I—what? No.” There was a time and a place for this conversation. This wasn’t it. And yet, “You and Natalia have a thing, Me and her might have a thing, there’s no reason why the things should interfere with each other. Unless one or more parties to either of the things wants them to. It’s. . .” he flails for the terminology, “A triad, V-type. Polyamory. You should look it up.”

Good information on where the cops hit would help him recalculate. . .

“Where did you even come up with this shit?” Clint asks.

“The internet, Clint. It’s this wonderful nightmare full of information, you know?” Bucky says, “Polyamory wound up being slightly adjacent to something else I actually needed. . . therapy related maybe, I can’t remember. The word caught my eye. Wound up being relevant to my life.”

. . . But really, that wasn’t going to help at this point. Tracksuits probably had some boltholes Bucky couldn't have known about, and the cops would have driven them into them. (Unless he was giving them more credit than they deserve? Was this another attack of the complexity addiction?)

“You were planning this?” Clint says. Bucky was getting whiplash from switching thought tracks so damn much.

“I know this might be hard for you to understand,” he says, “But I did have a life before I met you. Twenty-odd years before I was HYDRA’s defrost-in-case-of-emergency wrecking ball, even.”

He could go check the strip club, or the gambling den. Except if either of them were still active they were going to be full of exceptionally angry, probably trigger happy, hostiles. As core facilities, and considering the general climate. . . .No, it would be a horrible idea for him to be seen anywhere near there. Propaganda aside, super soldiers are not indestructible.

So retreat? Let the cops work their angle, see if that puts the Tracksuits out. . . .maybe sweep up the stragglers if they make a nuisance of themselves.

“I’m headed back in, I think we should lie low while the cops do their thing, pick up once the dust settles.”

“Huh? Oh yeah, whatever you think is best.” Clint says, “Sorry, I’m still trying to process the whole Polyamathing.”

“I’ll send you links.” Bucky says, as he starts circling back.

“This conversation is so surreal.” Clint says, “Can I—I gotta ask—you know, forget it.”

“You wanna know who.” Bucky says.

“Well. Yeah, and did Steve know?” Clint says, “Oh my god, Steve was involved—“

“Wasn’t much one of us was involved in that the other wasn’t,” Bucky admits, “It’s not really your business though. It’s not as big a thing now, but back then things like that would ruin a girl.”

“Peggy.” Clint says.

“Barton, so help me god.”

“No, if Steve then Peggy, I mean, unless all that epic love story they’ve been selling was a lie. . .” Clint says.

Bucky keeps his breath even, but his jaw is so tight it hurts. “Nothin’ about it was a lie.” he forces out, “She was the best fuckin’ thing that ever happened to Stevie.”

“And you?” Clint said almost playfully.

“I ain’t talkin’ about it.” Bucky says, “It ain’t fuckin’ done. You know what people would say about a dame of our generation if this shit stuck to them? You really think Peggy needs more bullshit after S.H.I.E.L.D. and all, when she ain’t well? You better let this the fuck go.”

“Hey, okay, no need to get pissed.” Clint says.

“Easy for you to say, your girl ain’t—” Bucky notices a Tracksuit not-quite-hidden in an alley, bastard is on the phone and looking right at him, “Looks like I might not be making it back to you as soon as I thought.”

“What’s the situation?” Clint says.

“Been made, looks like he’s callin’ backup.” Bucky says, dodging into an alley, “I’m gonna keep heading in, but. . . .”

“I’m coming out to you,” Clint says.

“Good.” he can feel a trap closing on him. He can feel it. It might just be him, though. Broken fuckin’ brain shit.

He moves on to the street again, and he can hear. . . . two, three? large vehicles on approach. He pushes into the next alley, but he knows. . . .he’s taking the straight-line in he ain’t gonna be hard to track.

Bucky is underarmed, just brought his SIG, knives. . .Still got the ASP, and a couple Widows Bites. He was going for shit that was easy to conceal so he didn’t get jumped by cops. He was not planning on walking into the endgame. He’s a fucking idiot. Stevie is never gonna let him live this down.

He moves into the next street at a run, and the momentum is really useful when he almost gets hit by a van. He rolls out of the way and the van barely breaks in time to avoid a second, the third sort of swivels to a crooked stop and lo, he’s boxed in. Well, a normal person would be.

“I think they found me,” Bucky says.

“shitshitshit” Clint says, which is less than helpful.

People start spilling out of the vans. There aren’t many guns, but the idiots who have them obviously have no clue what they’re doing. It’s far more frightening than facing a trained team: at least then Bucky would know he’d only be getting shot if they intended to shoot him.

Last man out of the van is a big sonofabitch, heavyset, bald, ridiculous mustache, “So. This is the Winter Soldier. I’m not very impressed, bro.” he says.

“I’m guessing you’re Ivan.” Bucky says, “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but it’s really not.”

“Bro got a mouth on ‘im.” Ivan says, “Bro’s lucky he’s worth more alive.”

“Thing about that.” Bucky says, “You can only collect if you’re alive.”

“Well, bro. You’re not killing, lots a good bro’s been fucked up, arrested. None of them dead. Maybe the Soldier lost his touch, bro.” Ivan says.

“Hm. _You risk much._” the Asset says.

(“Oh, shit.” Clint says, “This looks bad.”)

“Perhaps.” Ivan says, but before he can give a signal arrows begin raining down, fire focused on men with guns. Because they are idiots, those who aren’t immediately disabled try to get a bead on Hawkeye, leaving the Asset uncovered. The Asset expands his ASP and endeavors to beat better sense into them.

It almost seems under control.

Then something is shoved into his left shoulder. On a scale from one to the usual levels of electric pain, it’s maybe a four: extremely unpleasant, but largely ineffective in terms of take-down potential. But there’s the smell. And the way his arm quits on him.

(He’s surrounded by hostiles)

(they’re gonna, no—)

He’s not sure what happens. ASP lost. Pull a knife. Copper in his teeth. (left unresponsive, damage—)

Everything is motion-response. Harsh contact, flash of red.

(can’t take it—)

(More on approach, wailing fills the air)

Ivan is on the ground, knee planted on his breast bone, knife ascending.

(Flash blue/red, blue/red, cacophony, words stretched beyond comprehension echo)

“ **Asset, drop the weapon.** ”

The order comes through clear, the strange stained-glass (like the saints) world shatters. Noise rushes in. Police are holding him at gun point. Clint is there, on his knees in front of him, Bucky doesn’t know where he came from. He gave the order. Knife drops.

There are hands on him. panic surges. (no, can’t)

The Asset takes over. There are protocols.

* * *

The Asset doesn’t speak. At all. The officers think he takes his right to remain silent a little too seriously. He doesn’t request his phone call. They’re not even sure he blinks.

* * *

Clint demands his phone call immediately and incessantly. Any questions are met with “I’m not authorized to answer that question. I need to contact my counsel.”

When he’s finally given his phone call, he turns into a scared teenager.

“Fuck, Nat, I really fucked up this time. Me and J.B. got arrested, and it’s all my fault. Looks really bad for him though. Bring all of legal. Fast. You know J.B. better than I do, so you probably know all the reasons why this is horrible.” He hangs up.

The detective tries to push while he still looks vulnerable.

“I’m not authorized to answer that question, my counsel will arrive shortly.”

* * *

She does, in fact, arrive. She’s dressed in a power suit, her hair is violently red and curled around her face, which is as inscrutable as. . . well, they’ve been calling him the Terminator because he had lots of weapons, no I.D., and acts like a freaking (murder machine) robot.

“Hi. I’m Natalie Rushman, I’m here to retrieve two of our assets, who have fallen into your custody.” She says.

“Whose Assets?” Sergeant Reyes, manning the desk, blurts.

Natalie gives him a look so cold he swears ice starts creeping across the desk, “Officially, I’m here on behalf of Stark Industries, Security Division.” Behind that ‘Officially’ lurks something horrible.

“W-Who are you looking for?” he asks.

“Clinton Barton, and the man he was arrested with. He wouldn’t have had I.D. Any items that were in their possession at the time of arrest should be returned to them.” Natalie produces an array of paper work from an expensive-looking suitcase, “These are the documents verifying the legitimacy of their operations, on behalf of Stark Industries, Security Division, and our contract holders.”

The paper work is in order, if intensely redacted wherever the second asset was mentioned, and countersigned by the head of Stark’s security division and the new Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.

The sneaking suspicion that they were holding at least one Avenger intensifies.

“You realize that your Asset. . .J.B.” that was the only part of the name that wasn’t redacted, “Killed several people, right?”

“The Asset will be subject to a rigorous internal investigation, as would any officer performing in the line of duty.” Natalie says, unruffled, “It is, however, an internal matter.”

Riiight. All the paperwork was in order though. Reyes sends word down the line. Detectives Raine and Pratt walk them up. Barton looks like a puppy who peed on the couch: sad, apologetic, and kind of adorable. The other guy. . .looked kind of pathetic but also vaguely frightening with his (oh god, actually metal) arm in a sling; his bag of weapons and other sundries wedged under it to keep his right hand free.

‘J.B.’ says something in Russian to Natalie, who replies in kind. Some of the tension drains off of him, the part that was triggering everyone’s flight-or-no-really-just-run response (or maybe that was just Reyes). “Ma’am.” ‘J.B.’ says in english, with a little tip of his head and a tired smile, and Natalie almost smiles back. There were some deeply coded looks between Natalie and Barton while she finishes the paper shuffling, and then that was it.

“I, for one, am happy to see them go.” Reyes says.

“Looks like we should have called Lord Stark after all.” Pratt says smugly.

“Oh god, never call him that again.” Raine says, then: “You two realize that was the Black Widow, right?”

**Author's Note:**

> The Things Tony and Bucky don't Talk About:
> 
> Tony alleviates his guilt over how slow the arm upgrade is going by giving Bucky weapons, tech, experimental body armor, and other assassin essentials.
> 
> After a few days of this, Bucky began feeling guilty because Tony was putting him up and spending ridiculous hours trying to fix his arm, and then throwing him all these nice toys. So he starts cooking for him. Tony starts finding homemade energy bars and other healthy snacks stocked in his workshop, and they're all delicious. 
> 
> Eventually J.A.R.V.I.S. tells Tony where they came from, and his guilt increases. . . .  
> ___________________
> 
> I know Kate doesn't live in Clint's building in the comics, but I decided to move her there For Reasons Which May Be Plot Relevant. Also, because it makes it even easier for her to just show up in his apartment and harass him whenever. Not that she needs any help on that score. . . .


End file.
